Scott Miller has a lot of faults.

He takes his job too seriously, for one. He knows he’s abrasive, and sarcastic, and quicker to anger than he has any right to be. Everything he says comes out so dry that everyone thinks he’s a judgemental asshole —which, he is, he just won’t admit that fact.

But everyone has their soft spot, right? For Scott, it’s his partner. You have no business tagging along with him when he’s storm chasing, and yet you’re always found tucked against his side or in the truck with him when it comes to it.

People in his group know him well enough not to say anything, even if you’re taking up space in the truck and talking Scott’s ear off when he should be working. Apparently, the group they’d decided to team up with for this storm don’t have the same reservations.

Scott’s chatting easily with you while waiting for the storm, an uncharacteristic smile on his face, when it happens. Some guy he didn’t even bother to remember the name of comes up to the both of you, acting like your whole presence is a complete inconvenience to the job. Scott tries to just grind the gum in his mouth as the guy goes on his little tirade, up until the moment the word ‘useless’ comes out.

Well, Scott’s always had a problem with his temper. The fight that follows is just proof of that.

“I’m a grown man, I can clean myself up.” Scott says to you as you wipe at his knuckles, jaw ticking with leftover irritation from the fight. There’s a softness in his eyes as he looks at you, brows furrowed in concern under the cap as he takes you in, like you’re the one that was exchanging fists.

“Don’t know what he thought would happen.” Scott grumbles, clearly still stewing on the situation. It’s what he does. You already know he’s going to be bringing it up for the rest of the trip. “Said that shit right to my face, in front of you.”

Scott scoffs, chewing on his gum a little more aggressively, fingers twitching in your hands as you continue to clean them up. He continues his irritated grumbles, the harshest said under his breath so you don’t give him that disapproving look he hates so much.

“‘Sides, you’re plenty useful. You’re my good luck charm.” He says, the hand you’re not working on reaching up to cup your cheek, pulling your face up slightly so he can meet your gaze. His eyes search yours, like he has to make sure that you believe those words. Like him pummelling a guy for something minor wasn’t enough evidence he cared for you, despite the fact that he seemed disinterested at times. “Yeah?”